


Whatever the Cost

by ineedtochangemyusername



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedtochangemyusername/pseuds/ineedtochangemyusername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial killer has struck London, intent on revenge. The only thing that connects the women that he is attacking, is that they are all named Molly. Now, Sherlock has to protect his own Molly at all costs from this terror who seems intent on burning the heart out of him. Serious Sherlolly, Warning: contains graphic murders</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. So I am new to AO3 although I am a fanfiction.net veteran (and by that I mean I have been writing fanfic for just over a year). This is one of my personal favorite stories I have written and my most popular. Hope you enjoy.

Lemons. Seemed to be the only thing that could settle his mind anymore. Well, that was not necessarily true, I mean, there were certain things… but the sharp taste of the acid on his tongue centered his mind again and enabled him to think straight. Better than drugs since it had no negative side effects, but then again, not as fun.

So there he was, sitting in his parked small green truck, watching Molly Jones come out of the grocery store, three bags hanging off her arm, and chattering away on the small mobile pressed to the side of her face and held in place by her shoulder.

She was not as pretty as some of them were, pity. Her strawberry blonde hair was twisted up into a bun and falling out here and there, wisps in her eyes which she kept attempting to blow out of the way in the most adorable manner.

He began sweating in excitement. He had not killed on in nearly a week and was having withdrawals form the adrenaline and endorphins caused by taking the last breath from a person. The look in their eyes, the pleading, the fear, the sadness, it caused a knot to form in his stomach. Some people would think it sick, but he found it necessary.

It was time. She was unloading the groceries in her car, keys discarded on the seat, perfect time to strike. The engine of the truck rumbled to life beneath him as he pulled it into the parking spot next to hers. Finally, a step up from the truck. Her car was large, not giant, but big enough to hold the children’s car seats in the back.

He took a breath and another shot of lemon juice from the small bottle in his hands before stepping out of the truck. When his feet hit the pavement, Molly Jones looked up and smiled sweetly. He returned the smiled before stepping close to her, close enough to smell the perfume mixed with sweat coming off of her. He pressed the gun in his hands to her side.

“Good evening Molly Jones. I suggest you get in the passenger seat and let me take you out for a little drive.” Molly’s hands began shaking and she dropped the cell phone she was holding. The voice on the other end kept saying her name and asking if she was there. “Don’t say anything unless you want your children to suffer the same fate as you, Get in the car and do not say a word. Nod if you understand me.”

Molly Jones nodded once. “Good, now get to it.” Shaking, she climbed into the passenger seat and he into the driver’s, but not before stepping on her phone, silencing the infernal voice on the other end. The truck keys he left in the ignition, he had no use for that vehicle any longer. The only thing h took out of the truck was the bag which contained all the tools he needed for the task at hand. The bag resided in his lap.

He began the short drive to the location he had chosen a week ago. Molly was sniffling in her seat, knees pulled up into her chest. The mascara that she had applied that morning was running down her cheeks now, turning them an off shade of black. The sniffling was driving him mental, so he silenced it with a short blow to the back of her head, using the gun in his left hand.

Finally. He turned on the radio, flexing the leather glove on his hand and finding the correct station. Classical music. He preferred everything classic. This included fairy tales, probably why he liked the Grimm Brother’s versions more than others. This of course, was the inspiration for all of the killings. Fairy tales.

When they had reached the spot, an abandoned hotel that had been empty for three-maybe four years. He had preselected a room and set up a scene. It did not take long for him to head up the stairs with Molly slung across his shoulders.

He soon had her set up on an X cross that was leaning against the wall, wrists and ankles tied to each corner. He took a seat and began his book, the one that he had picked up earlier that day while he waited for her to awake from her forced slumber.

When she finally did, he almost regretted it. The plot was just beginning to thicken, and he was hoping that he could read the entire book. He had all night after all, and he was a quick reader. If he was lucky, he could average a book per killing.

She did however, awake, and so he began the tedious task of preparing her for the fairy tale. For Molly Jones, he had selected Cinderella. Although not his favorite, he never grew tired of it.

His favorite was Fitcher’s Bird, and so it was that he was saving it for the last murder, the final murder, the best murder. In order to complete it though, he needed heads, and so it was that every woman he killed, he took the head with him. He had them all in a storage shed, far away, where he was certain no cop would ever find it.

Anyways, he began the task of preparing her, starting by stripping her of her clothes, and replacing them with the rags that he had produced from his bag. The makeup he did just so he could remember which girl this was. Smokey eye, with a thick black eyeliner. He found this to be witty and was chuckling while applying the grey eye shadow. I mean Cinderella, smoky eye, yeah, it was funny.

He then moved onto the hands. The charcoal he removed from the bag was rubbed all over them to give them the look that they had been busy cleaning the fireplace. He smudged some all over her clothing, to complete the costume. Now came the best part.

The shoes were very difficult to track down, but he eventually found a pair at an exotic costume emporium. He had to settle for glass replicas, but at least he got the right size, a size 2. Now, Molly Jones did not wear a size two, she in fact wore a size seven. The ugly step sisters didn’t fit Cinderella’s shoes though, now did they? In fact, they had to cut off their toes to fit into the shoes, and that was exactly what he was going to do the Molly.

He produced the knife and stone from his bag, which Molly began to squirm, at the sight of. He took a seat in front of her, where he had been reading the book before, and tantalizingly sharpened the knife in front of her. It gave him excitement to see his Cinderella, struggling to get free of his bonds, and the adrenaline began to increase, him waiting to find the climax of his story.

When he finished sharpening the knife, he sauntered over to her, and knelt before her, kissing her feet, and then replacing his lips with the sharp, cold metal. He started with the fifth toe, the pinky toe, and worked his way to the big toe, left foot first, then the right. He always worked left to right, because it was alphabetical that way.

The OCD came along with the schizophrenia, which he had been diagnosed with five years prior. As was the anxiety (which was why he needed the adrenaline and endorphins) and hallucinations.

Molly passed out from the pain before he could even finish the first foot. Not that he could blame her, he glanced down at his right hand on which he had only four fingers. The pinky finger was lost when he had served his time six years ago in Afghanistan. The injury was not enough to get him discharged, but the serious mental illnesses were. A year after he lost it, he was sent home with honorable discharges.

Finally, the work was complete, and Molly Jones’ feet were a bloody mess, both literally and figuratively. He cleaned them and bandaged the before slipping on the glass slippers. He stood back and admired his work. Yes, his Cinderella was complete. Well, almost complete.

He reached into his bag and pulled out his favorite, the most important tool. His machete. In one swift motion, he had decapitated Molly Jones, and caught her head which he placed in a plastic bag inside of his black bag.

Now it was time for his special touch. He placed the note he had written for this story on the ground at her wounded feet and pulled the final tool out of the bag, a pin and a stuffed butterfly. You know, like the ones bug collectors would display in a shadow box frame. He pinned it on her left wrist, like a corsage, and left to get rid of the car.

Within fifteen minutes, he was watching the gasoline soaked car burn up. He smiled and took a drink of lemon juice.

 

OoOoOoOoO

“And you said it is like this at every murder?” Sherlock questioned as he studied the scene before him.

“Yep, no DNA, no prints, no evidence, and not to mention, no head. The butterfly is the only thing he leaves the same. The heads are gone, and we have no idea where. We know that he keeps choosing victims, women from the ages 25-40 years, but other than that they seem random.” Lestrade answered. He looked a bit queasy at the sight before him.

Sherlock even was a bit bothered, and he never was affected. “What’s with her feet?”

“Ah, well, he seems to fashion all of the scenes after Grimm Brothers’ tales, and this appears to be Cinderella. I mean, the rags, the soot, and the fact that in all of the original stories, the ugly step sisters cut off their toes to fit into the glass slippers.”

“And you tell this story to children?” Sherlock asked astounded.

“Well, it has become less gory over the years,” Lestrade shrugged.

Sherlock merely shook his head and continued to study the woman. “Do we have any idea who she is?”

“I have Donavon looking into it and will let you know as soon as I do, but going by the note, I would say her name is Molly.”

Sherlock looked at the note that the killer had left through the evidence bag.

_Ella, worked to death,_

_Cinders cover her head to toe,_

_Good golly Miss Molly,_

_You should never have said no._

_The caterpillar becomes a butterfly,_

_Leaving her moth behind,_

_Who knew that he would be the death of her?_

_Soon Molly would be the last of her kind._

“Why does he take their heads?” John interrupted. He had become sick at the site of the scene, and needed to leave for a minute to get sick. Ever since Sherlock’s fall, he didn’t handle blood and death as well as he had used to. Apparently now he was feeling well enough to rejoin the group.

“Not sure, he always takes them. There hasn’t been a woman left with one yet.” Lestrade responded.

“How many deaths?” Sherlock inquired.

“Six murders in the past month.”

“And you just now called me?”

“Well, we figured we could figure this one out without you…..”

“Obviously not…” Sherlock scoffed.

“Sherlock…” warned John.

“Hmm?” he looked up at his short friend. John simply shook his head. “Fine, I will be going back to Bart’s to join Molly so I can take a look at the past files and see the past two bodies as I assume they are still there?”

“Yeah, I will have the reports sent to you.”

“Good, John I will see you soon.” Sherlock flipped his scarf and left with his usual flair.

 

OoOoOoOoO

Soon he was sitting in Molly Hooper’s office, strolling through his mind palace, trying to make sense of things.

_C’mon Sherlock, let’s think. Hmmm. Molly Johnson, age 33, died May 6, crime scene, The Shoes that were Danced to Pieces. Mary Campbell, age 27, died May 13, Hansel and Gretel. Margret Scott, age 35, died May 20, The White Snake. Mary Ellen Smith, age 38, died May 29, Snow White, Margery Herbert (huh funny last name), age 29, died June 8, Rumpelstiltskin, and finally the woman from today, Molly Jones, age 34, died June 18, Cinderella._

_“Think Sherlock, people are dying,” taunted Mind Palace Mycroft. SHUT UP! Ok, fairy tales, fairy tales think…..Fairy Tales!!_

_“Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain,” smirked Mind Palace Jim. “C’mon Sherly, don’t you see the connection? Think, think really hard!”_

_Villain, ok, old fashioned villain…..Moriarty….ok, what connects them? What connects Molly Johnson, and Margret Scott, and Mary Ellen Smith, and Margery Herb-oh, oh, that was just it wasn’t it? Molly. Margret or MOLLY for short. Mary or MOLLY for short. Margery, again MOLLY for short._

_Jim smiled, “I warned you Sherlock. I am going to burn the heart out of you.”_

Sherlock’s eyes shot open and he turned to the pathologist working busily away on the body before her. “Molly,” he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mild language and a kidnapping/murder as before. You can pretty much always expect those

“Ok Sherlock, let me get this straight, you want me to arrest Tom Stark, Molly’s fiancé, under a made up charge, and then send an officer to live in her house with her?”

“No Lestrade, don’t be stupid, Molly will come live with me and your man will stay at her house alone,” Sherlock stated as simply as he would ask somebody to hand him a pen.

“What evidence will we have to contain him?”

“My brother will provide us with something.”

John shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And remind me why exactly we are arresting Tom again.”

“Because Molly will refuse to live with me otherwise, do keep up John.”

“Sherlock, I am not arresting some innocent bloke so you can get his fiancé to come live with you.”

“It is for her own protection, completely professional.”

“No, it is not professional, in fact it is quite childlike.”

“Fine, then I will get my brother to take care of it,” Sherlock crossed his arms and smiled smugly.

“Do you know how much paperwork I will have to fill out for this, plus the fact I am at risk of getting sacked now?” Lestrade sighed.

“Mycroft will assure you stay employed Detective Inspector.”

“Oh yeah, that is _real_ reassuring. Why do you even think Molly is in any danger?”

“Your brains, they work so slowly. No wonder you get to sleep easily at night and aren’t up at all hours. Don’t you see? All of the women who have been murdered either are named Molly or go by the name of Molly. Molly dated Moriarty, and she dumped him, plus the fact that Moriarty overlooked her when I jumped, and is now obviously back for revenge on her.”

Sherlock left out the fact that this was actually revenge on him as well, putting Molly in danger. It was just an added bonus that she would come live with him, and Meat Dagger would be in jail…

“Have you even asked Molly to come live with you yet?” John questioned.

“No, I just decided it about twenty minutes ago.”

Lestrade shook his head incredulously, “And what exactly makes you think that she will say yes?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Sherlock asked, honestly curious. John simply threw up his hands and turned to leave the office.

OoOoOoOoOoO

She would do very nicely. It was also a plus that her black hair hung to her waist. He needed long hair for his next fairytale victim. He also needed some lettuce and a secluded abandoned castle, but he couldn’t get the castle, so an old barn it was. All of that would come later tonight though.

For now he put his binoculars away in his black bag, and left the spot where he was parked across the street from Margret Salazar’s office, and drove off to go to his favorite restaurant where he would order his favorite steak. They had some delicious sauce on it that made his mouth water at just the thought of it.

His waitress for the evening was a tall thin brunette who seemed intent on flirting with him the entire evening and calling him dear. Normally, he would be flattered and probably ask her out for drink, but right now he had another woman on his mind.

The steak was divine, as per the normal, and he followed it down with a swig of his water which had three lemon slices in it. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have any water at all, just the juice, but he did have appearances to keep up and drinking plain lemon juice would just draw attention.

For the most part, the evening was relaxing, but there was the child throwing a temper tantrum across the room. It took literally all of his strength to not go over there and strangle the child…quite literally. If only she knew how easily he could fit his large hands around her skinny little neck, how easily it would be to snap it and stop the crying…but again, he had to keep up appearances.

OoOoOoOoO

“Sherlock, there is no way in _hell_ that I am moving into your apartment with you. I am engaged to be married remember?”

“Yes, engaged to a man who is currently under house arrest for possession of illegal drugs.”

“What th- how the hell could you possibly know that?”

“Simple deduction.”

“Piss off Sherlock.”

“Please Molly,” he grabbed her hand and sighed, “for some reason, one I cannot explain, the latest serial killer has been targeting women by the name of Molly or women who have the nickname Molly. It is the only thing that connects them, and the only thing I have to go off of. I don’t want you to be the next victim in his string of sadistic fairytales.”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me,” she folded her arms defensively across her chest, “why do you not want me to be the next murder?”

“Are you- Molly, of all the ridiculous ques-“

“Answer me, and maybe I will consider your offer for accommodations.”

“For God’s sake. Molly I don’t want you to die. You are a wonderful friend, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Why?”

“Will you stop asking that?”

“Why?” she repeated, unfazed.

“Because Molly, you mean very much to me. You have always been there for me, even when you had every right to believe me to be a horrible man, and now it is my turn to repay the favor,” he took her right hand in both of his large ones, “please Molly Hooper, let me help you.” _Besides the fact that it is taking every ounce of my strength not to grab you and kiss you right now._

At this, Molly visibly softened, and her shields came down around her. “Fine, I will come stay with you, but only because my flat is being torn apart by a drugs squad at the moment. When Tom gets cleared of this mess I will be moving out and right back in with him.”

_Not if I can help it._ “Molly, have you considered the fact that maybe Meat Dagger is really a junkie?” Of course, it want true, but Sherlock was NOT going to have his Molly marry that, that idiot.

“Sherlock, he is clean. I have never once seen him high, which is less than I can say for you.” _Ouch, that stung._ “And why do you insist on calling him that awful nickname? His name is Tom. T-O-M, Tom.”

“I am the world’s only Consulting Detective Molly, I think I can spell Tom.”

Molly huffed, “You would think wouldn’t you?”

“Aw, look at you two, bickering like an old married couple,” a voice from behind them chuckled. They both whirled around to find a certain silver haired Detective Inspector leaning on the wall surveying the scene before him with a toothy grin plastered smugly against his face which was tired, and stubbly.

Molly blushed and turned back to the autopsy she was finishing. “What do you want Lestrade?” Sherlock growled in annoyance.

“Just coming in to check on Molly, after all, her fiancé was just arrested.”

“I’m fine thanks,” Molly smiled.

“Good. Have you taken Sherlock up on his offer to stay at Baker Street?”

“Actually, she just agreed to it,” Sherlock interjected, not looking up from his mobile.

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully and scratched at his chin. “I have to say, that is kind of a relief. I mean, what would we do without our favorite pathologist here?”

_MY pathologist, not OUR._ “Very good then, I will have Mycroft’s men bring some of your things over to the flat. I will come pick you up from work at precisely 5 o’clock.”

“Fine. There is one condition we did not discuss however.”

“And that would be?”

“My cat, Toby. No Toby, no Molly.” She smirked as Sherlock groaned. In the background, Lestrade burst out into fits of laughter.

OoOoOoOoO

It was time. He had been watching, waiting for her to take the trash out to the bin on the side of the house like she did every night. The door had opened, and light flooded out into the darkness as she padded out in her dressing gown and slippers, bag of garbage in one hand, her phone in the other.

He wasn’t in a car at the moment, but had taken a cab here, and was sitting under a tree across the street fiddling with his favorite pen knife to pass the time. He would take her car tonight, and that is why he hadn’t brought his own.

He took a drink of lemon juice before padding across the street to her house where she was standing by the bin in which she had already dumped her bag, and fiddling with her phone, returning a text to who he could only possibly be her boyfriend going by the stupid smile plastered across her pretty face.

The long black hair which framed her face was pulled up into a bun on the top of her head, not down to her waist as per the normal style. He would fix that soon enough.

She didn’t even notice him until he was no more than an arm’s length away from her. She jumped back startled when she saw him, and the color drained from her face when she saw he gun in his hand. Even in just the moonlight it was apparent how pale she had become.

“Good evening Margret darling.” She remained silent and rooted to the spot, eyes wide with terror. “Now, please don’t make this difficult for me. You and I, we are going to go on a little ride together in your car, so we are going to go inside and get your keys. If you scream, this will be most unpleasant for the both of us. Now, let us go inside alright?”

Margret still made no sign of movement or understanding. He was getting annoyed at the stupidity. Why were the pretty ones always so dumb? He sighed deeply and tried to contain the anger that was swelling inside of him. “Margret, we are leaving NOW.” He clicked the safety off on the gun. The small noise made her jump and come out of her trance. “We are going to get your keys, okay?”

Margret nodded weakly before heading back to the door, him following closely behind. He had clicked the safety back on the gun again. He didn’t want to kill her, not yet at least.

When she went to pick up her keys, he noticed that she dialed those familiar numbers on her phone. 999. “Margret, give me your phone,” he commanded, keeping his voice calm. She meekly handed it over, but hit the call button at the last second and turned to run. _Dammit._ The lady on the other line picked up almost immediately and Margret let out a high pitched scream.

He picked up the phone and hurled it against the wall with such ferocity that is shattered. She was heading for the door again, but he was quick and soon tackled her to the ground, causing her to hit her head on the kitchen counter.

“You stupid bitch!” he snarled and slapped her, hard, across the face. A red hand print formed instantly, and she began to wail. He was angry, angrier than he had been in a long while, and plunged the needle into her neck roughly, administering the sedative to shut the whore up for a bit.

The authorities were on their way over no doubt, and he had to hurry. Her blood from where she had knocked her temple was staining the carpet, but he didn’t have time to clean it up. Luckily, he had not touched anything besides her, and he had shaved his head long ago so there was no chance of hair falling out and contaminating the scene. However, there was every chance that skin follicles had fallen off, so there was only one thing he could do to make sure that he would not be found.

He drove off into the night, and unconscious woman in the front seat with him, and a burning house lighting up the night sky behind them.

OoOoOoOoO

“It is raining and freezing outside, and yet you are sitting on the steps out here,” Sherlock remarked, handing the pathologist a cup of hot tea before joining her on the front steps of 221B.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“You are going to get sick.”

“So? Who cares? My fiancé is in prison, and I am living with a sociopath.”

_A sociopath who put him in prison in the first place. Oh Molly, why are you still with that moron? I can offer you so much more than he can._ “I’m sure he misses you dearly.” _He misses you dearly? That’s not what you were supposed to say you idiot._

Molly took a sip of her tea and sighed. That wonderful feeling where you can just feel the warmth trickling to your toes and spreading throughout her body washed over her and she shivered involuntarily.

“Here,” Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and placed it around her shoulders, “take this.”

“Thanks,” she blushed, reminding Sherlock of that night those few years ago after she helped him fake his fall. The night filled with passion. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory of how perfectly their bodies fit together, like it was meant to be. But no, he couldn’t think of that right now. When he had come back from dismantling the network, he was going to pursue something, but he was too late. Molly had moved on without him, and he had to accept that now. _Pfft, like hell._

“C’mon Molly, let’s get you changed out of those clothes,” Sherlock helped her to her feet and inside the door up to her new house. It wasn’t her home, but maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could change that.

OoOoOoOoO

He didn’t even wait for this one to wake up. He was still too enraged at the fact that she had called 999 and tried to escape. Did she not realize the importance of her in his plan? Obviously not.

She was quickly fastened to the wall with super glue along her back, legs, and arse. She didn’t deserve clothes after what she had done, so he made quick work of those. From his bag he removed the tools for tonight which were minimal, an electric razor, several heads of Rapunzel lettuce, and three coils of thorny vines.

He started with those, winding the around her body tightly, like a boa constrictor, causing the thorns to poke holes all over her body and blood began to drip from them. Blood. Sometimes he wondered if he was part shark, because like them, he seemed to be able to smell blood from a mile away and it was intoxicating. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a swig of lemon juice before moving onto the next step.

He turned on the razor and relished at the buzzing sound. He took it to her head and cut along the scalp, causing her hair to fall in heaps around her at her feet. Good. He finished and scooped them all up, tying them together with a rubber band and set about to braising them together until all of her hair was just one thick braid. Yes, it would probably have been easier to braid it while it was attached to her head then cut off the braid, but this was more fun, and who was he to give up on fun?

The final touch before removing her head was to spread the lettuce all over the floor, like rose petals on an aisle for a wedding. He smiled at the thought of his bride, his Molly. This was all for her after all.

Jim said that he would make sure that he would get Molly if he helped him get Sherlock. Jim said that he too was turned down by Molly and wanted revenge. Molly wouldn’t be allowed to live anymore, and he didn’t want to live without her, so he began preparations for that night that he was planning on.

The night where he would kill Sherlock Holmes for Jim, and when he would kill Molly Hooper for hurting him the way she did, for kissing her right as she took her last breath, and finally when he would kill himself too. Three deaths and the universe would be set right.

He took the note and pinned it above Margret’s head with a thumb tack and added the signature butterfly to her wrist. He gathered his things and turned to leave, but not before reading the note one last time. The note that was inscribed:

_I’m coming for you Molly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, Dun, Dun!!! I hope you guys liked it, I am having a lot of fun writing this. I have always thought Grimm Brother’s Fairy Tales sounded more like murder mysteries than bed time stories, and I guess that is where this came from. Please review and tell me what you think. Your reviews keep me motivated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mild language and a kidnapping/murder as before. Some drug references. Also, some sexual themes starting up here. That’s right folks, I am writing Sherlolly smut. Can I get some applause??

He was bored with fairy tales. Of course, there was still the grand finale to come, and he would use a Grimm Brother’s tale as inspiration for it, but right now he was bored. He had done all of his favorites, and the police were getting absolutely nowhere. Even the famous Sherlock Holmes wasn’t coming even close, despite what he had been warned about.

Now he was going to try some new inspirations. Why not switch to monster stories for a bit? He could explore Biblical deaths, deaths from some of the most timeless stories. Some of the most gruesome tales could surely excite him for a bit right?

This is what he hoped at least.

What he has been doing wasn’t giving him the satisfying rush anymore. That is why tonight he was going to do something different. Tonight he was going to explore one of Stephen King’s most famous stories. Tonight, he was going to recreate the Shining.

He was going to be known. He was going to go down in history. He would be the copycat killer of famous literary works. Yes, that would definitely be remembered.

Tonight’s girl could not be his to keep though. The head would be used for a different purpose.

He was told by his sponsor that the head was important. The head would serve as a message to a certain consulting detective. A consulting detective who, by what his sponsor had told him, had invited HIS Molly to live with him.

The pure thought of her living in that flat with him, eating his food, showering in his shower, sitting on his couch, and the worst of all…God forbid that she be sleeping in his bed with him, well it made his blood boil.

He needed a rush, and he needed one now.

He raised the flask that held some of the lemon juice and took a drink. A large drink. Probably the tenth drink he had taken in the past fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t cutting it anymore.

He had been following a young girl of about twenty named Molly Marshall around a shopping center for the past half hour.

She was flirting with who he assumed was her boyfriend, and pushing the cart around. He couldn’t help but notice the pack of condoms sitting on top of the groceries and rolled his eyes.

He didn’t know why, but grocery stores and shopping centers tended to be the best place to ‘pick up girls’. Maybe because they felt safe. After all, grocery stores were a part of everyday life. Most people could stop at one on the way home from work. Some went every weekend, and others, every few days.

Women were stupid. They would get into their cars, completely ignore the advice that their mother gave them when they were a child, and sit in the car, texting, making a call, looking through their purses, or whatever had their attention at the moment.

This gave him the opportune moment to slip inside the car and do what needed to be done. He had taken at least three women this way, and tonight, he was going to take another.

He watched and waited until they went out to the car and unloaded the groceries. The man went to put the cart back, and he took this moment to open the door and quickly swung up into the driver’s seat.

Needless to say, Molly was shocked, and dropped her phone into her lap. Before she could open the door, he had locked them and was pulling out of the parking lot. Molly began to shake violently, and still hadn’t even said anything. Silent tears were streaming down her face. She began to hyperventilate.

Shit, she was having a panic attack in the passenger seat. He sighed. HIS Molly used to have those. Not this little slut who was not an accomplished pathologist, but simply a waitress. HIS Molly was so much better than this one, but they had the panic attack thing in common.

He knew how to calm somebody down who was having one of these, but to be honest, she didn’t deserve any help, so he settled for turning up the radio to drown out her pathetic sobs that had taken over her body.

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock was carrying Toby’s cat crate up the stairs when his phone rang. He managed to balance the crate against the wall with his leg so his hands were free to reach inside his coat and take out the ringing mobile. The caller ID showed that it was DI Lestrade.

Sherlock answered the phone and held it against his ear with his shoulder so he could resume carrying the crate up the stairs.

“Hi, Sherlock, so you will never believe what has happened!”

“Actually Detective Inspector, I am very hard to surprise. Not much passes my attention.”

“Well this one certainly did. We are currently at the flat that belongs to Thomas Stark on the fake drugs bust you sent us on, and we were scanning down the place, making it seem as real as possible-”

“Do hurry up Lestrade, I do not have all day to listen to tales about fake drugs busts.” Sherlock had reached the flat and was fumbling with the clasps on the crate trying to release the cat who was screaming bloody murder.

“Are you strangling a pigeon over there?” Lestrade asked.

“That,” Sherlock sighed, “Is Molly’s dear cat, Toby, who apparently had to live with us. Do continue with your dreadfully boring tale.” Sherlock finally managed to get the door open and the tabby streaked straight to Sherlock’s room and slipped through the door which was open no more than a sliver. Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust imagining all of the cat fur that he would have to clean up later.

“Right,” Lestrade started, “So we have been scanning over everything, none of us taking it too seriously of course aside from Anderson. He has been like a bloody bloodhound since we let him back on the force…”

“Oh do get to the point. I believe Molly needs help moving a few more bags upstairs.”

“Sorry. So Anderson was searching every nook and cranny. He even looked up the chimney and he found a bag of coke. Actual drugs Sherlock!” Lestrade chuckled. “You sent us on a fake drugs bust to arrest an innocent man who apparently is in possession of illegal drugs! Sherlock, you solve cases without even trying to!”

Sherlock stood open mouthed, shocked at the information.

“You still there mate?”

Sherlock nodded his head, but then realized that Lestrade could have no way of seeing him so he simply stated the obvious. “So Tom is really going to be locked up for a legitimate reason, not just so Molly could be protected.”

“No shit Sherlock. I thought you were against stating the obvious.”

“You know, you are the second person to use ‘no shit Sherlock’ lately.”

“Well, it sounds good. I think we should use it more often. I think Donovan would be quite keen on using that on a daily basis.”

“Oh dear god, please do not give her any more fuel.”

Lestrade laughed heartily. “We will proceed with the trial and such just like we would any other case. To be completely honest, this makes my job a bit easier.”

“I am so glad to hear that,” Sherlock sneered sarcastically.

“Well I best be going, but I thought you should know that.”

“Thank you Gabe, goodbye.” Sherlock abruptly hung up and sighed. People were so predictable. It was ridiculous.

_Tom is really actually guilty. What did this mean for him? Molly was free? No, that makes her sound like a thing not an actual person._

Sherlock shook his head. He needed to go to his mind palace and sort out his feelings, if that is what they were.

_He entered through the large double doors. There to greet him was none other than Mind Palace Molly Hooper._

_“Why hello Sherlock, fancy seeing you here.”_

_Sherlock huffed and turned down the first hallway trying to get to the room where his case files were stored. Maybe thinking about a case would get his mind straight. He opened the door and found Mind Palace Molly stretched lazily on the couch reading a book and stroking Toby who was curled up on her stomach, the lucky bastard._

_“Did you really think you could get away from me that easily?” she asked innocently._

_“I need to work,” he growled._

_“But you are too busy thinking about me.”_

_“And why the fuck is that? Why can’t I get you out of my head? This is driving me insane!” he ruffled his hair in frustration. “Every single time I close my eyes, there you are! It is bloody distracting!”_

_“It is because you love me.”_

_“Love,” Sherlock sneered, “is simply a mixture of chemicals and hormones produced by the body.”_

_“Yep! And doesn’t it feel damn good?” Molly giggled._

Sherlock’s eyes shot open. Alright, the mind palace was not what he needed. What could he need?

Then it dawned on him. He hadn’t had a good wank in a few days. That would certainly account for the strong attraction to Molly. He pulled himself out of his chair in which he was seated and began stripping and heading for the bathroom.

The shower was soon running and steam fogging the mirror. Sherlock was under the stream of water and slowing moving his fist up and down over the rapidly growing erection.

Little did he know that Molly had come into the flat and could hear groans and moans coming from the shower. Her eyes widened and she froze. He couldn’t be in there with anybody, could he?

He began moving faster and faster. An image of his pathologist appeared before him, but he tried to shake it away. _Focus on Irene. Focus on the night in Karachi. Focus on her body. Or the women on John’s computer. Focus on them._

No, there was only one voice come from the bathroom Molly decided. That meant that….Sherlock was getting off in the next room. She buried her face in her hands, completely mortified at the situation, but stayed rooted to the spot.

Sherlock was getting close, but try as he might, Molly’s image stuck in his head. He imagined what it would be like to kiss her. To feel her. To make love to her. He came over the edge and moaned her name.

Molly uncovered her face. Did he just say…Molly? Did he just say her name? Molly fled upstairs to her new room, John’s old one. She was breathing heavily. Sherlock just got off and came as he cried out her name…what did that mean?

OoOoOoOoO

He had Molly Marshall tied to a tree. He snapped a pair of latex gloves on. It was time. A rush went through him, exciting the butterflies in his stomach again. He had what he needed, all of the tools.

Molly had given up struggling against her bonds and was simply crying quietly against the duct tape placed over her mouth and wrapped around her head.

He made quick work with getting her cleaned up. There was no real costume for her to wear for this, so she was nude.

Now, there were three things people remembered from the Shining. There was the Roque mallet, the boiler, and REDRUM. He was focusing on the book here, not the movie. After all, he was a literary copycat, not a theatrical one.

Anyways, he needed to make it apparent that it was based off the Shining, and so he had decided on the three main points. REDRUM was easy.

He produced a razor blade from the bag, and stalked over to the crying woman. He knelt before her and nuzzled her naval. She cringed, but was unable to go anywhere. She smelled…intoxicating. None of the women he had murdered had reminded him as much of HIS Molly as this one did, and it angered him.

She whimpered when he gently bit the skin about her belly button, which was her big mistake. HE became furious and stood, striking her so hard across the face that it slammed into the tree, knocking her unconscious.

“See what you made me do you little bitch?” he snarled. Of course, being unconscious, she didn’t answer even though he waited for one, so he gave up and went to work. He started with a large R. The blood began flowing from the carving in her stomach.

He smiled and allowed himself a small taste of it before continuing. Soon he had R-E-D-R-U-M spelled out on her stomach. He put the knife away.

He stood back and admired his handy work for a minute while contemplating what to do next. He decided on the mallet which was leaning against the tree she was tied to.

He picked it up and judged its weight and size for a few minutes, taking a couple practice swings before proceeding. Once he felt ready, he turned and sent a swing into the woman’s side. He heard the audibly satisfying crack of a few rib bones and smiled.

She opened her eyes, screaming against the tape from the pain. He rolled his eyes and took out the machete. He swung it and in no more than ten seconds, her head was no longer attached to her body, but was rolling on the ground. Now he could finish his work with no distractions.

A few more swings with the mallet here and there, and soon he was satisfied. Bruises were already forming on her porcelain skin. It was beautiful.

Lastly was the boiler. He couldn’t obviously bring a boiler out here and blow it up. That would just be ridiculous. He could however, dowse her entire body in boiling water, and that was what he was planning on doing.

He had brought a small, portable grill with him, like the ones you use to go camping with, and had a pot boiling already. It was a large pot, a commercial restaurant one, probably was used for making an abundance of sauce or soup. Well, that is what it would be used for if it wasn’t currently being taken advantage of for a higher purpose.

He had a smaller pot with him as well that he used to scoop some of the scalding water with and then splashed her body with it. The heat turned her skin an instant red and by the time he was finished, her body was blistered, peeling, and a bright, bright red. Perfect.

He snapped a quick picture on a film camera, and packed everything up. One more thing then he could go home.

OoOoOoOoO

The chlorine made his eyes water, but he had managed to set the head in the water, floating right about in the middle. The note on the wall written in blood was finished.

The blood was just a standard hospital IV bag and was from some donor at one point or another. Nothing special. He checked the note he had written and the picture he was instructed to base it off of. It was as close as it was going to get.

He dialed the number and a soft voice answered on the other line.

“It is done sir,” he confirmed.

“Good. Very good,” the voice purred. “Now, I have your next…client picked out if you’re ready, come get the information.”

“Will do sir.” He hung up, and left the pool.

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock had finally fallen into a deep sleep which was a rare occurrence for him. His mobile ringing in his ear quickly fixed that however. Groaning, he answered.

“Lestrade, your timing is inconvenient. I will call you back and you can tell me the case details then.”

“Sherlock, you’re gonna wanna see this,” Was all Greg said, in the most monotone voice. It was so without inflection, that it worried Sherlock.

“See what?” he asked warily.

“He’s back Sherlock. And it isn’t good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks do much for reading my lovelies! Please review.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I haven’t updated in forever. Sorry. I started writing a novel and that has taken up most of my creative writing time. I hope you don’t hate me…without further ado, chapter four!

When Sherlock arrived at the scene, the head was already wheeled off to Bart’s morgue for its post mortem, and Anderson and the forensic team had finished gathering evidence. The pool had been drained, and Lestrade was watching from a bit of a distance, brow furrowed. He looked a bit pale, and his hair was ruffled from repeatedly running his fingers through it.

Sherlock glanced around the pool, taking it all in, and sighed. Sherlock Holmes was not one to have problems at crime scenes, no matter how bloody or gruesome, but this was different for two reasons.

The first was he had been here before. He had stood alongside the pool, with a British Army Browning L9A1 in his hands, trained at a certain psychopath. In return, the psychopath had a bomb strapped to his best friend, and snipers trained on them both.

Last time he was here, John Watson almost died.

The second reason he was bothered, was, like before, the victim’s name was Molly. Molly Marshall. Now, despite what he continually told himself, he had a Molly of his own to worry about. He couldn’t lose her, especially not in this manner.

Sherlock snapped on a pair of gloves, and without saying anything to anyone, made his way down to the drained pool and began traveling over every inch with his pocket magnifying glass. Amazingly, he was able to push the thought of Molly out of his head for the time being in order to finish the task at hand.

He came out of his mind palace and looked up to see John had arrived at the scene, and was now standing on the edge of the pool with Lestrade, who was talking on the phone, and watching Sherlock work. John was obviously uncomfortable with the situation, more specifically the location, but came anyways.

He knew Sherlock needed him, so when the detective called him at four in the morning, asking him to come to a scene, he was there in a heartbeat, regardless of the location. After all, that’s what best friends do, isn’t it?

Silently, Sherlock made his way back out of the pool, and began examining the evidence collected by the forensics team and then turned to face the large note made in the blood on the wall. It took up almost an entire side of the pool, and the writing was in large block letters making it difficult to make an assumption if the author was a male or female, but judging by the sharp edges, Sherlock was leaning towards male. That was besides the fact that the killer’s victims had all been female, which statistically pointed to a male.

Upon closer examination, it was obvious that the blood was not painted on with a brush, so probably a finger, and since the forensics team hadn’t found any prints, probably a gloved hand.

Sherlock stood back a bit and took a mental picture of the note that said ‘HI SHERLOCK’ with a smiley face in the O. Moriarty was behind the killings then. Whether he was doing the dirty work or sitting behind a desk giving someone instructions, he didn’t know although he favored the latter theory.

Finally, it was time to talk to someone, and Sherlock stalked up to John and Lestrade. He nodded his hello to John and to Lestrade he said four words. “Give me the details.” Sherlock was not in a talkative mood, and his mind was whirring a mile a minute, and the mental image of his pathologist stood in the back of his head, distracting him from his work.

“Molly Marshall, age 21, dead for a little over twelve hours now. Last night she and her boyfriend were at the grocery store. He left her sitting in the passenger seat of his car while he took the cart back to the store…he turned around after he heard the driver’s door open and close, and saw the car being put in reverse…with Ms. Marshall still in the passenger seat. He immediately called 999 and we sent a dispatch out for a kidnapping case. This morning, a high school swim student came in for practice, and found the head in the pool as well as the note.” Lestrade finished and John sighed.

“Has anyone found the body that belongs to the head?” Sherlock inquired.

“We hadn’t gotten any information on it until just a minute ago…a jogger stumbled upon it in a wooded area not far from here. Apparently this murder scene was based on The Shining.”

“Jesus…” John breathed.

“The book or the movie?” Sherlock interjected.

“What?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

“The scene. Was it based off of the book or the movie?”

“For fucks sake, what does it matter?!”

“The movie paled in comparison to the book as most movies do. I’m curious as to what our killer’s tastes are.”

John rolled his eyes. Lestrade pinched his nose and answered, “Honestly Sherlock, I don’t know, and I still don’t see why it matters…”

“Well you see, in the movie, Jack Torrance, played by Jack Nicholson, freezes in the snow while looking to kill his son, but in the book he dies in a boiler explosion. If our killer was to copy the movie, he would have frozen the body or something, but if he were to copy the book, he would incorporate something with the boiler…if he was a smart man with good taste.”

“When did you become so pop culture savvy?” John asked while he shook his head.

“I had to learn it for a case.”

“….I don’t believe you,” John smirked.

Sherlock said nothing but gave John the death stare.

“Well, our victim was either boiled or had boiling water poured over her according to the detective on the scene, so I would say probably the book…” Lestrade cut in.

“I knew I liked this man!” Sherlock beamed.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed.

OoOoOoOoO

He sat in a chair across the desk from his sponsor who was looked of the pictures of last night’s murder with an appraising eye, and nodded approvingly at each photo on the smart phone.

“I do think you have done well, and did everything I asked of you,” his sponsor drawled in a slightly feminine Irish accent.

“Thank you Mr. Moriarty,” he replied.

“Please, call me Jim. May I make a request for the inspiration for your next…piece of art?”

He was surprised that Moriarty called it a piece of art. To him they were a necessity, but that didn’t make them pretty…Moriarty was even more sadistic than he was. “If you would like that Mr. -er- Jim.”

Jim Moriarty smiled a purely evil grin and folded his hands under his chin. A shadow passed his dark eyes, and gave him a hellish look that frightened him, the experienced serial killer, and ex-military man. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

OoOoOoOoO

Molly Marshall’s body was tied to a tree. Her nude body was covered in blood, bruises, and blisters. The blood was from the words carved into her midsection, and the lack of a head, and the blisters were burn blisters apparently from boiling water.

The coroner appeared on the scene shortly after Sherlock, John, and Lestrade did. He explained that the bruising was from several shattered ribs. _From a Roque mallet!_ Sherlock thought excitedly.

Like before, there was no trace of the killer, but Sherlock insisted on looking over the scene with his eye anyways. He didn’t trust Scotland Yard to do a good enough job. When they got there, John had gotten a call and stepped aside for a bit to talk, but now was walking back, tossing his phone up and catching it again with a huge smile plastered across his face.

“I know why Sherlock loves The Shining so much!” he announced in a sing song voice.

Sherlock paled. Lestrade let a loud chuckle escape from his mouth. “And why is that?” he asked.

“Apparently when Sherlock was younger, he never liked the normal children’s books, and read so he wanted to read The Shining…after much arguing, his mother let him. Oh dear Sherlock here slept in Mycroft’s bed for three whole months!” At this, John fell over laughing.

Lestrade joined him in his laughter. “How did you find this out!?”

“I called his brother and asked him,” John chuckled. “But that’s not even the best part!”

Sherlock was ignoring the two, and occupying himself with studying the scene.

“Then what is?” asked Lestrade.

“Sherlock was thirteen when he first read The Shining! He was a teenager!”

Lestrade lost it and began laughing so hard he was crying. “That means Mycroft had to have been at least eighteen!”

Sherlock’s head shot up. “How do you know Mycroft’s age? Not many people know that…”

“…ummm….” Lestrade was saved by Sally Donovan who interrupted their conversation.

“Greg, the coroner is leaving and he needs you to sign off on some papers…the press also wants to talk to you about the ‘Killer Grimm’.”

“The Killer Grimm?”

“That’s the name everyone has given to him, although he is branching out now, so it could change.”

Sally and Lestrade said their goodbyes and left to talk with the coroner. Sherlock finished scanning the scene, and unfortunately he could not find anything, so he and John went their own ways. John went back home to Mary and his child, while Sherlock headed back to Baker Street. He was going to go the morgue to examine the body and head more thoroughly, but was tired and needed to think things through. He could go later.

OoOoOoOoO

Once home, he collapsed on the couch, steepled his hands under his chin, and closed his eyes. His thoughts were interrupted by Molly who opened the door. She was home, and in an annoyed mood.

“Molly-” he began but was cut off by her short reply.

“Don’t Sherlock. Don’t say anything.” She shrugged off her jacket and made her way over to the couch. Sherlock sat up, confused, but before he got any explanation to her mood, she threw one leg over him and straddled his lap, which had an immediate effect on him.

He was aroused just by that, but then Molly did something unexpected. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his, gently once, then harder, more desperate. Sherlock growled in appreciation.

Molly pulled away and sat back to study his face and said in a voice laced with lust, “I have had the day from hell Sherlock, I need you to fuck me. Now.”

Sherlock was taken aback, but didn’t need to be told twice.

He flipped her over so he was hovering over her, and leaned in to kiss her more passionately this time. One of his hands was supporting him, but the other one he snaked up her side until it closed around one of her breasts, causing her to gasp. Sherlock took this opportunity and dove his tongue into her mouth.

She eagerly reciprocated the action, and their lips and tongues danced together. Sherlock was so preoccupied with her mouth, that she didn’t notice one of her small hands was making its way down his body, and before he could do anything, it closed around his raging erection and squeezed.

Sherlock moaned into Molly’s mouth and thrust his hips into her hand.

He sat back so his arm was no longer supporting him and used his unoccupied hands to grasp the hem of Molly’s shirt and pull it up over her head revealing a very sexy, lacy, push up bra. Sherlock moaned in appreciation and threw the shirt to the side so he could grasp her breasts. He went back to kissing her, and continued rubbing her breasts. It must have felt good because Molly was arching her back to push them further into his grip.

He slid one hand under the fabric of the bra so he could have more skin on skin contact with her, and lazily began circling her nipple with his index finger. This simple action was making her wriggle beneath him.

Her hands, which had been tangled in his hair, were now fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and she was getting nowhere. In frustration, she ripped the shirt open with surprising strength, sending buttons flying everywhere!

She sighed at his toned body and raked her hands down his bare chest leaving red lines, then reached up and placed a gentle love bite on his shoulder.

Sherlock had had enough, and tore at the bra which easily snapped off her, leaving her at his mercy. He began kissing each breast passionately causing moan after moan to exit Molly’s pretty little mouth.

He sat back and they both slid their pants and underwear off in one motion. When they returned to their previous position, Sherlock could feel the heat coming off of their bodies. He was incredibly turned on, and could feel that she was the same.

Molly reached down to take hold of his erection and guide him in place against her. With one thrust and grunt, Sherlock entered her, and she took a sharp breath, adjusting to him. Her eyes were glazed over and semi rolled back in her head. Her hair was billowing about her, framing her face.

They kissed some more while Molly got used to him inside her, and then he began moving, thrusting in and out. Her hips came up to meet him with each stroke. He began moving faster and faster until he was close. He leaned down and bit Molly’s bottom lip, sending her over the edge. He came with her, and they collapsed together on the sofa in a tangled embrace.

Sherlock opened his eyes and shook his head. His mind palace was coming up with too many fantasies… Molly was still at work, and she had never come home. He sighed looked down to see that he had given himself a boner… _bloody fantastic_.

With some careful breathing he managed to make it go away for the most part and gathered himself up to go to the morgue and see the bodies…and more importantly Molly Hooper.

OoOoOoOoO

He had set up the scene and was preparing to go collect his victim. It was surprising that Moriarty had chosen the crucifixion of Christ as the inspiration for this murder, but then again, not that surprising as he had wondered if Moriarty was the devil on more than one occasion.

The scene was to take place in a warehouse that he had draped in plastic sheets to avoid leaving any evidence. A cross stood against the wall, and he had her outfit ready to dress her in once he got her here. Everything was ready. Now he just needed the victim.

He took a drink of lemon juice. It was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I get you with the mind palace fantasy? Molly and Sherlock still have yet to do it…sorry. I almost revealed the name of the killer in this chapter, but I didn’t. I would much rather you wait and see who it is…it might surprise you. Any guesses?

**Author's Note:**

> Please Review!


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